


My Broken One

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-18
Updated: 2009-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke wrenches his arm as he and Sylar escape from another government ambush. Sylar gives him a bath and washes his hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Broken One

**Author's Note:**

> Luke is 17.
> 
> _Winner Best Sylar/Luke Fic (R-NC-17) at the Heroes Slash Awards Summer 2009_   
> _Winner Best Hurt/Comfort at the Heroes Slash Awards Summer 2009_   
> _Runner Up Best One Shot at the Heroes Slash Awards Summer 2009_

Luke makes it to the motel room on his own two feet. He's cradling his arm, sweating and swearing under his breath as his vision whites out around the edges. He has to grit his teeth against the pain but he does it. Sylar brings up the rear, nodding his head with a big false smile at the retiree couple unloading their car across the lot. Luke hopes that he and Sylar look like two tired people, sullen for having been on the road a few hours too long and nothing like men with the Government breathing down their necks and a trail of bodies to show for it.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Luke sags. He wants to hold it all in, to not let Sylar see how much he's hurting but he's been biting his tongue for over an hour as they raced across rough hewn, uneven roads, every pothole making his eyes water as he shook like rag doll in the car. Luke whimpers pitifully and his grip on his injured arm slips. The blackness that has been crowding at the corners of his eyes suddenly rushes in and everything's a blur. His knees buckle and his stomach churns. Luke feels clammy all over, queasy and unsteady, as he sways with the searing pain in his shoulder.

"Hey!" Sylar says. "Hey, Luke!"

Luke can't answer; between trying to stand and trying to breathe, there's no energy left for trying to speak. He puts on his best fake smile, the one that says, "No, Dad, it's ok. You didn't really hurt me when you hit me," and prays to god that Sylar won't see his weakness and think him a dead weight that needs to be got rid of. But Sylar stares at him with those calculating eyes, tilting his head to the side and seeming to see the lie, though Luke hasn't said anything at all. When Sylar presses his palm gently to Luke's bum arm, Luke howls in pain. He sobs dryly, and there's no point in keeping up a façade so cracked, so Luke concentrates on simply trying to not puke because he's embarrassed himself enough already.

Sylar circles around him. Luke pants, quick, shallow breaths that make his head feel light and stays the pain as he teeters on the edge of passing out. He keeps his busted arm huddled to his chest and cringes in on himself when Sylar steps nearer. In the mirror, Luke can see his own eyes, red and wild and wary, but Sylar doesn't touch this time, at least not his arm.

"It's dislocated," Sylar says, stroking one long finger across Luke's cheek. Luke, stupid fucking moron that he is, tries to shrug it off. He shudders with the redoubled pain that ricochets through him and _wails_. Luke's skin burns hot with shame, face wet with tears he can no longer keep at bay.

"Gotta hurt like a bitch," Sylar says, and maybe Luke's starting to hallucinate from the pain but… is that a hint of pride in Sylar's voice? "We passed two motels before this one. You're an idiot for not asking to stop sooner."

Sylar doesn't sound mad. He's chuckling, almost indulgent and that makes Luke's head spin more than the breath that he can't quite catch. He doesn't have time to wonder what it means because Sylar's hands are on him, one firm to the centre of his back and the other curving loosely round his waist. He guides Luke to the bed, a telekinetic embrace keeping him up when he stumbles.

Luke lies on the bed where he's put, still whimpering, as Sylar hovers over him. He's near enough that Luke can smell the bitterness of the too-strong diner coffee on his breath.

"This is gonna hurt," Sylar whispers calmly.

"Hush," Sylar says as one wide palm slaps over Luke's mouth before he can say no. Luke _screams_, Sylar's lips on his forehead, and he passes out to the sickening pop of his shoulder being yanked back into place.

***

When Luke wakes, he's aching all over but he's warm, deliciously warm and he thinks he can cope with the throbbing pain as long as the heat that's all around him never goes away. He shifts a little but it hurts when he tries to lift a hand to rub at his face. The warmth is still there, sucking him down, urging him to lie still and let the pain be numbed. So, Luke gives in and dropping his hands lazily back to his sides. They splash wetly where they land and that's not right. Luke fights a rising panic as he struggles through the haze to open his eyes.

"Try not to move." Sylar's voice is a comforting, familiar rumble near his ear and the first thing Luke sees is the strong outline Sylar's nose, just inches from his own. Luke's thoughts are scattered and he can't quite latch on to where he is or why he's there but Sylar is here too, so near and so calm, and Luke instinctively relaxes, lolling back in the encompassing heat of the water with Sylar there to take control.

"Here, take these." Luke opens his mouth without question to the painkillers that Sylar presses at his lips and he gulps obediently at the bottled water that Sylar holds up to his mouth. When some dribbles from the corner of Luke's mouth, it's Sylar's fingers that absently feather over his skin and brush the mess away.

"Why? Wha--?" Luke tries as his eyes slowly begin to focus. Through the steam thick air he can see that he's in a bath, bubbles to his chin, and Sylar's kneeling on the bathroom tiles at his side. Sylar's sleeves are rolled to his elbows and he has one hand dipped beneath the water, settled casually on Luke's chest, stopping him from trying to sit or sinking further down.

Under the water, Luke's naked. Even his threadbare boxers are stripped from him and when he notices, he feels a thousand times hotter with a blush that cascades down him. Sylar merely smirks at him and hums. He soaps a wash cloth and gently starts to scrub the sweat and grime from around Luke's neck.

"I can do it," Luke snaps.

He's ashamed to be so exposed, and wants to hide away so that Sylar can't see how skinny he is around his chest, how plump around his waist. He wants to lash out before Sylar can note and mock the fine, fair hair that barely dusts his legs and groin. He needs to prove to Sylar that though he thinks he's seen how brittle Luke is beneath the layers of the clothes he wears, appearances can be deceiving and Luke is stronger than he will ever know, that Luke is strong enough to stand at Sylar's side.

But, when Sylar holds out the cloth to him, rolling his eyes at Luke's petulance, Luke finds it still hurts too much try to move his arms. He bites his lips 'til he tastes blood on his tongue, inch by slow inch moving the washcloth along his chest. When he tries to slide it higher, to pick up where Sylar had left off and clean his neck, Luke whimpers. Sylar takes the washcloth back from Luke's barely resisting fingers.

Luke settles back against the porcelain rim of the tub, screwing his eyes shut in defeat, breathing heavily in pain and confused arousal as Sylar's hands glide over him. He tries to bring his knees to his chest, to cover himself from Sylar's piercing gaze in anticipation of when the bubbles will die off. Sylar's smirk becomes a laugh and Luke flushes miserably, half-wishing that Sylar would leave to let him lick his wounds in peace, yet all the while thanking whatever gods there might be that Sylar's still here to taunt him at all.

"Would you relax?" Sylar says, still chuckling. "The water will keep your muscles from cramping and help stop the worst of the bruises. It was either this or hold you up under a hot shower. Trust me that this is the less awkward of the options."

Luke nods and keeps his eyes shut to Sylar's face, still close enough that Luke can feel the hot huff of Sylar's breath on his brow. Right now, Luke doesn't think anything could possibly be more awkward. Sylar's using both hands to lather Luke's chest, rubbing in soapy circles that brush tantalisingly over Luke's nipples, pebbling against his will and it won't be long before Sylar's hands shift downwards to where there is nothing but bubbles to hide how Sylar's touch affects him.

Luke feels as if his body is not his own. He's screaming at himself inside his head that now isn't the time to give into these dark and dangerous desries, but his will is no match for the conflicting press of gentle hands that Luke has so often seen kill and the sedate lap of the cosseting water around him. Everything Luke experiences is tinged with the distant edge of pain. Luke talks when he's nervous and now, he's can't stop babbling. His throat is dry and his voice is hoarse, and all his traitorous body aches to do is settle back and let himself be petted.

"How long was I out?"

He spreads his legs without meaning to, knowing his cock is plump and swollen, slowly rising up to meet Sylar's touch.

"Not long," Sylar says.

Broad hands slide the lather further down, ghosting over the faint grooves of Luke's ribs to his belly, pinching and kneading at the soft flesh there. Blunt nails, cut down to the quick, scrub over Luke's stomach. The point of one finger delves, curious, into Luke's navel. Luke squirms.

"And the agents?" Luke asks, voice quavering.

A heat hotter than the water that coddles him or the blush that prickles at his skin fans out from Luke's groin and makes him whine unconsciously with want.

"We lost them."

Fingertips stroke along Luke's hips. Palms smooth soap along his upper thighs. There's no way that Sylar hasn't noticed the head of Luke's cock peeking from the water's surface. Luke still hasn't the courage to open his eyes and look.

"Are you sure?" he asks, pretending to himself that his voice isn't breathless and broken with desire. "Because we thought we lost them before and--_Oh god!_"

Luke's eyes snap open when Sylar tickles at his balls. The pads of his fingers drag up Luke's shaft and Luke gasps, half wondering if this is all a fever dream that'll leave him with a mortifying wet patch in his lap when Sylar wakes him. Then, Sylar's fist closes round his length and he's sliding his soap slick palm loosely up and down. Luke doesn't care anymore _why_ only that Sylar doesn't stop.

"Stop worrying," Sylar says, and Luke obeys, groaning softly at Sylar's steady strokes as his mind clears of everything but the thrum of pleasure rocking through his core. "You did good, Luke."

Sylar drops a soft kiss to Luke's temple as his thumb presses lightly to Luke's slit. He traces circles around Luke's tip and brushes lower, following the line of the ridge of his cock and settling in a steady rhythm at that spot below the crown. Luke sighs out a mewl, and cranes his neck to Sylar, nuzzling against his cheek as he begs for more, peppering pretty, little kisses to Sylar's jaw anywhere his lips can reach. Sylar makes that indulgent sound again and ducks his head obligingly, pressing his lips to Luke's in a long, tender kiss.

With his good hand, Luke clutches at Sylar's shirt, tugging him closer. Water splashes up messily as Luke arches up to him. He wants to somehow cleave them closer, to pull Sylar into the narrow tub atop him, but all this writhing isn't good for his shoulder, and now, when Luke whimpers, it's as much with pain as it is desire.

"Calm down, Luke," Sylar murmurs but Luke doesn't want calm, he wants Sylar as he knows him: Sylar, predatory, looming over him; Sylar, hungry, pressing against him; Sylar, demanding, ramming into him. Luke wants to feel the full force of Sylar's single-minded desire and know that _he_, not power or the past, is what Sylar wants to so violently possess.

Luke clings to Sylar tighter, yanks at his shirt to drag him down nearer, lifting his neck from where it rests on the tub to mash their lips together harder until he aches from the awkward angle and his lips are rubbed red-raw from Sylar's stubble. Luke doesn't care about the pain; he welcomes it, relishes it because what's a little extra soreness when for once he's finally getting what he wants? But Sylar turns away from his desperate, needy kisses and the hand that's on Luke's chest warningly holds him back.

"You're going to hurt yourself and you're no use to me broken, Luke."

That has Luke settling down, trying to ignore the confusing whorl of threatened rejection, an icy sting in the pit of his gut, and shattering euphoria. Luke feels giddy enough to laugh and cry and puke all at once because finally, finally, here and now, someone, _Sylar_ cares enough to want to keep Luke safe.

He lies passive in the tub, his dick still thick and flushed, bouncing against his belly and slapping through the water with every ragged breath he takes. Sylar pulls back and strips out of his sodden shirt. When Luke raises his good hand to absently trace the pattern of his chest hair, Sylar waits for a moment and lets him touch. Then, Sylar takes Luke's curious fingers in his own and brings his hand to his mouth, kissing each of Luke's damp fingertips before laying Luke's arm back down at his side.

Sylar stands and Luke's eyes fly wide at the bulge in Sylar's jeans. His cock twitches with a new wave of hormones that hurtles through him, leaving him harder and dripping. Sylar sees it, muttering, "Oh, Luke," as he smoothes the hair back from Luke's forehead. He takes the showerhead down from the wall as Luke's hand sneaks up again, dragging along his fly as Sylar starts the water through the shower, adjusting the temperature as it falls in a stuttering stream at Luke's feet. He tries to thumb open Sylar's fly but Sylar shakes his head and lightly slaps his hand away.

"Later," he promises when Luke starts to pout.

The water from the shower is warm and it's only when it's raining down on Luke's scalp that he realises the bath has began to cool and he's sitting in chest deep tepid water, goose pimples rising on his skin. Sylar angles Luke's chin, tilting back his head to thoroughly wet his hair. The water trickles hotly down behind Luke's ears, splattering noisily to the water that already fills the tub.

He gives a little pulse of microwaves and the water around him heats to match what's coming from the showerhead. Sylar clucks his tongue but doesn't complain. Luke thinks that this shouldn't count as the cardinal sin of playing with his powers when it so clearly serves a purpose. If Sylar thinks the bath has chilled too much, he might insist on covering Luke up. Now, the showerhead is gone and strong fingers massage shampoo into Luke's grimy, sweat greased hair.

"Sylar," Luke groans as firm thumbs work circles at his temples, knead at the base of his skull and ruffle his hair only to slick it back down again. Sylar's fingers comb through his locks, rubbing at his skin until Luke's scalp squeaks clean against his soapy fingers.

With a curving palm against Luke's brow to shield his eyes from the shampoo, Sylar washes away the lather until the water streaming down Luke's chest in rivulets runs clear. Then, Luke hears the snick of the shampoo bottle again and the slide of skin on skin as Sylar rubs his palms together briskly, more of the fresh, citrus scented shampoo slicking his hands. Luke thinks that Sylar must be enjoying this as much as he is because who really bothers repeat the lather and the rinse?

Luke sighs, both content and not. He's too relaxed with Sylar's fingers in his hair to want this to ever end but the ache in his groin won't be ignored. He thinks he shouldn't be getting so turned on from this, from having Sylar be so gentle when what Luke admires most is when he's ruthless. He thinks he shouldn't let the insipid fragrance of the soap, wafting around in the hazy, steam filled room, lull him into a stupor when if he really takes the time to smell it, the scent is sickly and cloying, overpowering Sylar's musk no matter how near Sylar leans over him, Luke's nose almost pressed to his armpit as Sylar curls over him and rinses out his hair.

Luke rocks his hips, sighing pitifully; there's nothing to ride against but parting water. He just out his chin and gently latches his teeth to Sylar's bottom lip, tugging down until Sylar stoops in closer to kiss him.

"Please," Luke whispers, breath hot, caught between their mouths.

Sylar nods and keeps up the kisses, his hand reaching below the water to grasp the base of Luke's straining cock. He kisses along Luke's rounded cheeks, lapping at the flush that's seeping along Luke's freckles as his fingers circle and pull up tight. He nibbles at Luke's jaw line, still soft with puppy fat not yet lost, and his lips brush at Luke's throat to feel the rumble of his moans as Sylar's palm slides back down his cock. Slow and tight and steady, Sylar strokes him, littering kisses to his sopping hair, to his fluttering lashes, down to his collarbones where the water bobs lazily against Sylar's soft, full lips in waves. He sucks at Luke's throat, teeth grazing lightly against the tendon of his neck, and, stifling a cry of "Sylar!" in Sylar's hair, his nose buried to Sylar's crown, Luke comes, thick ribbons of semen mixing with the bubbles in the water.


End file.
